


Somewhere in the Etcetera

by goingdownin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief mentions of physical abuse, Caretaking, Christmas, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, I have my outline done so yes it's a WIP but it's all planned out, John and Harry talk a lot, John returns home briefly, John's past, M/M, New Years, Post S4, Serious Illness, Sexuality, Sexuality Crisis, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Tags to be added as I go, There are cases, all abuse coming from the Watson parents, and lots of fluff, because that's the way i do it, but not for our boys don't worry they're healthy, covert wanking, everything else premise wise is basically the same, happy ending guaranteed, psychological abuse, sorry - Freeform, there is no Rosie, these are our boys, tw for depictions of cancer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2019-09-05 09:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingdownin221b/pseuds/goingdownin221b
Summary: John has been back living at Baker Street for a while now, but he's still feeling adrift following Mary's death and his pseudo-affair. Now he must return home for Christmas to deal with a family emergency, and he and Harriet are reunited temporarily under their parents' roof. Predictably, it's no easier than it ever was when they were growing up. Old tensions resurface and John finds himself going head-to-head with the past in far more ways than he could ever possibly be ready for. His sister takes it upon herself to open John's mind to all the possibilities his life now presents.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys--thanks for reading! The first chapter of this was betaed by the amazing [disaronnus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaronnus/pseuds/disaronnus), but since then I've gone ahead and made many many changes, so any typos/errors are completely my bad. This is a WIP; I will try to post regularly because I am forcing myself to carve out time in my life to relax, and that means doing fandom stuff. But please do stick with me and be patient because I'm not yet sure how long this will be; I plan on a nice slow burn.

****

Harriet was in the lot, leaning against the side of her beat-up white Volkswagen and smoking. She looked deep in thought, and John took advantage of the chance to assess her without being intentionally misled. He gave her a quick once-over and found that she looked much as she had the last time he’d seen her: her honey-blonde hair was buzzed close against the back of her neck and longer on top, swept into a side part on the left. She wore a fitted plaid shirt and worn-out jeans with some old leather boots she’d had forever, and a casual leather jacket so similar to the one she’d had in high school that John half-wondered if it was possible that it was the same one. She was free of makeup and jewelry, which she'd always rolled her eyes at. No frills, his sister. Just Harriet, sharp as a tack but fundamentally adrift.

He knew better than to say anything about the smoking. He might broach that topic with Sherlock, but Harry smoking usually equaled Harry not drinking, and so John immediately felt some of the hunch relax out of his shoulders (the left one ached regardless; the long train ride hadn’t done him any favors).

The lack of drinking made for one less thing to contend with, at least. John took a moment to straighten his posture, consciously drawing in a lungful of air.

It occurred to him that he’d taken in all of his observations with one relatively brief head-to-toe sweep. Sherlock had passed some valuable skills to him along the way without John ever being aware. He felt oddly pleased by the idea and wondered whether Sherlock had noticed the improvement. Silly thought; he'd no doubt known ages before John realized it himself.

Harry, having become aware of his approach, performed an awkward movement with her hand--something akin to an aborted wave--and flicked her little glowing ember across the darkening lot. She tucked her hands into her pockets as he neared.

He stopped a couple of feet away and temporarily dropped his bag at his feet.

Harry hesitated, then stepped forward and hugged him stiffly. He only just had time to touch her back with one hand before she pulled away, but it was time enough for him to catch the scent of cold leather and fresh cigarette smoke; no alcohol so far as he could tell.

“Harry.”

“Brother John.”

***

“You’re looking at me funny. You’re not gonna do what _he_ does?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re not gonna do that--deduction thing are you?”

John huffed out his nose and rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. “I don’t even know _how_ to do that ‘deduction thing’, Harry.” _But I already have, so you’re too late anyway._

“Just checking,” she said, not bothering to mask the skepticism in her voice in the least. Her segue, when it came, was ironic enough to almost make him laugh. “What you guess it’s gonna be?”

“Dry chicken.”

She barked out one sharp laugh. “The driest. Like splinters. Turkey though, I think, or a goose--Christmas eve and all. Extra traditional.”

“Right, true. Sticky mashed potatoes? Like we used to feed to the dog to get her to stop begging.”

“Mouth glued shut.” She chuckled. 

“Or do you think she…” John trailed off, thinking of one particular word Harry had used a few moments earlier. _Traditional._

“Do I think what?” She glanced at him again, her tone suspicious. She already knew what he was thinking.

“She might be doing that thing where she...tries.”

“I hate that. It’s sad, innit?” Harry sounded reflective, and even mildly bored. Indifference had always been her way of dealing with emotional situations. If it was an act she was putting on, she was good at it. He’d always envied that. He envied it most of all back in the days when they were teenagers and Harry had detonated a bomb in their house by coming out. While she was able to adopt a cool demeanor in the face of their parents’ anger, John had felt every angry word like a physical blow. He had been the one who had taken it to heart, whereas Harry had never flinched. Not outwardly.

So John ruminated now on Harry’s assertion that their mother’s yearning for “normality” was sad. One part of him agreed, but the larger part of him--the sense of self he'd developed away from his family--was incensed. Just the idea of his mother putting up extra decorations and making three types of pie was too much. Because it was pathetic, and it wouldn't change anything, and their mother knew it, and he couldn’t bear feeling sorry for her. More, he couldn’t bear her _knowing_ he felt sorry. Feeling sorry for her might lessen the spectre of her transgressions (and there was his internal Ella). He began to brace himself against all of it, and focused instead on wondering what baked treats Mrs. Hudson might spoil him with when he got back; he had tried to protest over the years, but she continued to do it any time he returned from a trip that was more than a couple of days long. He always had to be quick to take advantage, too, if he wanted to beat Sherlock to the punch.

Harriet blew out a long, slow breath, as though reading his mind. “We’ll survive it, John-o.”

A question formed in John’s mouth, but kept his tongue weighed down like a stone because he didn’t actually want to know the answer: _What about once she’s alone? What then, if anything?_

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just need some sleep. I’m bloody knackered.”

“All you did was take the train!”

John shook his head and let out a snort of amusement. “No. Not from that. Sherlock kept me up half the night playing his bloody violin. Not sure _what_ he was playing, exactly, but they certainly weren’t Christmas carols.”

He felt her eyes on him and looked back over at her questioningly. 

She raised an eyebrow. “He was throwing a tantrum, dummy. Isn’t that what he always does when he doesn’t get his way?”

“Don’t know what you’re on about. He’s just Sherlock, being...Sherlock. The man himself is his only applicable adjective. And verb. ‘Sherlockian; to Sherlock.’”

“Except that you were leaving today,” she said, the _you’re a bloody moron_ apparent in her flat tone.

He scoffed. “Yeah, and me leaving means he has no excuse to avoid going back to see his own family.”

Harry drew a deep breath, then said nothing.

John’s brow furrowed. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Johnny,” Harriet said, cracking her window to get some air flowing through the car (the only thing she claimed could prevent her from feeling carsick on long drives), “I’ve got nothing to say about the both of you that you don’t already--on some level--know. Sherlock isn’t as different from the rest of us as he pretends to be.” 

John let his head loll back against the headrest. He wasn’t sure what Harriet could possibly imagine she understood about the detective, and frankly the very idea of trying to interpret what she’d just said gave him a migraine. Better to not think at all, at least while it was still avoidable. He simply held his tongue and let her believe that his silence meant victory.

***

They sat parked across the street for as long as they thought they could get away with. Harry’s window was all the way down now and she blew smoke out through her mouth sideways. She knew how much the smoke bothered John.

“I still don’t know how you can stand those things after we grew up smelling it all the time.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe that’s why.”

“They say scent is the strongest trigger of memory,” he chastised, and couldn’t help that in his mind’s eye he briefly saw the shadow of a coat collar turned up against the wind, narrow silver eyes slitted in thought behind curling tendrils of smoke.

Harry shook her head and blew out another stream. “I took it from them and made it mine. It’s the way _my_ house smells now. _My_ things.”

John laughed wryly. “That makes no sense.”

“Not to you.”

“Look, you want to make it yours? I suppose that’s your prerogative, Harry, but look what else he’s got for it.”

She didn’t respond to that. She slowly finished her smoke while they both stared holes through the familiar front door on its dark stoop.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Harry have Christmas Eve dinner with their parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. Sorry this chapter took me a bit; I have a lot of ideas, but they haven't quite agreed with me which order to occur in. Also, there are a few things about this story that make it personally difficult for me to write. I hadn't realized it would affect me as much as it has. That said, I'm still plowing ahead and just trying to make this everything that I, as a reader, would want from it. I hope you enjoy this chapter. The third one is well underway.

They had grown up together; they’d always known how to dodge, how to duck and cover, and how long they could stay hidden. At some point they both reached for their door handles as if given a silent cue. 

They went about the business of collecting their things from the boot. Harry regarded him, her dark grey eyes clear and wide. “Let the wild rumpus start,” she deadpanned, and John quirked a small smile at her.

He found himself wishing, as they crossed the street together, that he could enjoy the rare absence of strain between them.

They mounted the three steps together and John hesitated for only a moment before knocking hard and briefly.

When the door opened and John looked his mother over for the first time in years, his first impression was that she was smaller than he remembered her being. None of the Watsons had ever been especially tall, but she looked to be at least an inch and a half shorter than he remembered. He was a doctor, so it was an underwhelming observation; it's a given that the spine compresses with age. She might in fact have lost a bit of height, but it was the surreality of being back in his childhood home after so long away that was exaggerating his perception.

Another thing was that her hair was dull, the shoulder-length curls more grey than golden-brown. She hadn’t been keeping up with the box dye. She looked so much older. But then, they all were now, weren't they?

Anna Watson stood back, holding the door open for them. “Come on then,” she said, as though she saw them once a week and this was routine. No hug, no false effusive warmth. “Supper will be ready soon. You’ll find your pa in the lounge.”

John summoned, without any effort whatsoever, the image of the lounge to mind: it was a room which hadn’t been updated since approximately 1975 (he already knew without having seen it that it would be the same as it had always been).

Harry dropped her pack onto one of the worn kitchen chairs and raised an eyebrow at John. Rip the plaster off, her expression said. John lowered his duffel onto the floor next to her chair and followed her. 

Their father’s overstuffed yellow chair was facing away from them, which gave them a moment to take in the portable oxygen tank with its tubes trailing out of sight over the threadbare armrest. Without being aware of it, John straightened his posture infinitesimally, shoulders back military-style.

He had been right, also: the lounge hadn’t changed a bit. Everything was just older. As he and Harry moved to seat themselves on the rickety old sofa, they took in the spectacle of the small, greyish man with the cannula on his face. His eyes watched them intently. Stanley Watson, like everything else, had aged. John took note of their father's labored breathing. Not so bad yet.

Harry sat and crossed her legs, clasping her top knee. Since their father had yet to speak, she again made one of those half-aborted waves. “Hi Pop,” she said, perhaps a bit dryly.

“Dad,” John said politely, tone even. 

Their father nodded, mostly at John, but his gaze fixated on Harry. John could see the evaluation taking place.

“How are you?” John prompted. Their father angled his head curiously in the signature way of the half-deaf. “How are you, Pop?” John asked again, louder.

“Fine,” the man boomed, louder than expected given his compromised lungs, and both John and Harry twitched minutely where they sat. “Bored as hell in this blasted chair.” He clenched one trembling fist, and John flexed his own subconsciously. 

_Damn my leg!_

They lapsed immediately into a silence which felt heavy to John, and likely to Harry as well, but which their father didn’t seem to notice in the least. They all watched the telly--some game show, Christmas-themed. When a Graham Norton rerun came on their father turned the station and kept flipping through channels, not settling on anything. John wished he'd go back to Graham. He quite enjoyed that programme. He couldn’t imagine his father watching it, however.

“Supper’s ready.” 

Their mother had materialized in the door frame like a ghost. She stared at Harry and John for one interminable moment, then directed her gaze pointedly at their father’s chair with a faint nod. John stood to take care of it before Harry could be put in an awkward position.

John bent, offering his arm. “Help you to the table, Dad?”

It took the old man several moments to make any decisive move, but then he slowly shuffled to the edge of his chair to get some leverage and gripped John’s forearm surprisingly tightly. It was a long, cumbersome process, but eventually John got him seated at the table, oxygen tank beside him. 

The rest of them settled, and their mother passed around a bottle of wine. John pretended not to see the look Harry gave it before she passed it to him: it was fleeting, but because he knew what to look for (Sherlock was right: once you knew how to do it you couldn’t turn it off) he saw the glint of regret. John opened the bottle only to pour a small amount into his father’s glass, since he was obviously waiting for it. In all the years they’d sat down to eat together while he was growing up, John had never once seen his father not drink a glass of red wine at supper. If the old man was anyone else John would ask about medications, but he wasn’t there to police the situation. His parents were well aware of what was going on: Stan Watson was dying. One more glass of wine was not going to be what did him in. 

And if he was entirely honest, John didn’t care to make their decisions for them. They could do as they pleased; they’d demonstrated that more than enough.

Though he would love a glass of wine himself, he skipped it out of respect for Harry.

“Grace,” their mother prompted, and they all joined hands. Neither John nor Harry closed their eyes or bowed their heads; instead, they exchanged a look of fatigued resignation. Harry glanced sidelong at their oblivious mother, then rolled her eyes exaggeratedly.

“Bless us, O Lord,” their mother recited, “and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen."

They released hands. The room filled with the sound of dishes clanking as they were passed around, utensils transporting food precariously from serving platter to plate over the expanse of the white linen tablecloth.

The spread consisted of peas, mashed potatoes, goose (Harry was right), stuffing, a mix of steamed carrots and broccoli (which John passed on unapologetically, vividly recalling how he’d been forced to finish the tasteless medley time after time when he was younger. He might not always feel he had control over his life but he was pretty sure it was his unfaltering privilege as an adult to forego his veggies, thanks), cranberry sauce, banana bread. There was a lot of food. Too much. John served his father before he served himself, while Harry and their mother each did for themselves, not so much as looking at each other as they passed things up and down the table.

Mr. Watson shook his head at many of the offerings. He took very little of what he did accept. It was unsurprising, John thought, but telling.

“How’s the practice, John?”

He was almost startled by the sudden question, as he had been fully prepared for their mother to continue playing the aloof hostess for a while yet. John nodded as he finished chewing and swallowed. “Good. Decent. Yeah. Quite busy, actually.”

“Money’s decent?” Their father leaned forward intently, again an unconscious maneuver of someone suffering from significant hearing loss. John met his eyes briefly, taking in the familiar flat stare. Instead of being overcome with the desire to please, as he would once have, John found (and was relieved to find) that nothing in him stirred. 

He scooped some stuffing with his fork (funny thing, stuffing--is a fork or a spoon the more logical choice? Why isn’t it more obvious? Best question yet: which would Sherlock choose? John momentarily became distracted by the irony of Sherlock eating anything called “stuffing”). “Yeah. Certainly nothing to stick my nose up at.”

Nothing else was said for a bit, but John felt something in the air. He waited, bracing. It didn’t take very long.

“No wife though,” their father groused, almost as an aside. “No kids….” He mumbled something further at his plate, but it was thankfully unintelligible.

“I’m a veterinary technician,” Harry contributed, too brightly and too suddenly. She gestured extravagantly with her fork. “You have to restrain a lot of animals. Read ‘em and react before they get dodgy. I bet you wish you could do that with some of your patients, don’t you Johnny?”

He gave her a distracted smile that was also half-caution.

“How did you get into that?” their mother asked, sounding more skeptical than interested. She was dutifully stabbing peas with her fork.

“Met one of the docs the last time I was in AA.” Harry said this matter-of-factly, without shame.

And here they were already. John knew what his sister was trying to do: she was fulfilling her role as the disappointing one. The elder Watsons expected it of _her_ ; she knew it would be slightly different for John. But Harry didn’t know him as well as she once did; it wasn’t helping. John tensed and prepared for the tension in the room to snap like an overwound guitar string.

Their father apparently still had enough strength left in him to slam a fork down on the table, making the rest of them start (including John, despite that he had already braced himself). He pointed a trembling finger at Harry and said, almost calmly, “I was speaking to John.” His hand fell back to the table listlessly, but his stare landed on his son. “You were married. Then it just, what? After a couple of months? And now you’re back playing games with that…” he visibly searched his vocabulary for something suitable, “that smackhead poofter?”

John stared back at his father, trying to regulate his breathing. He wasn’t sure what his expression might be doing, but he could feel his blood pressure surging, muffling all sound like he had wads of cotton stuffed in his ears. His jaw clenched against the words surging up his throat like bile, and with an enormous effort he breathed through it and sat back in his chair. Turned his head and stared at the tablecloth until he felt able to speak without having an aneurysm. When he could, he looked pointedly at his mother. “So, is this what we came here for then? One last...kick in the bollocks, is it?” His voice was hard and tight.

All he saw in his mother’s face was refusal; she didn’t want to engage in this way. But she deserved some of the blame, damn it, because she was the one to urge John and Harry out to see their father. _It will surely be his last holiday, _she’d said. She practically begged, and she’d never done that. But now they were here, and there she was, being passive.__

__“Right.” Planting his fists on the table, John stood. He considered the situation for a moment, then somehow managed to meet his father’s eyes. This hadn’t been his plan, but now he recognized that if he didn’t find a way to compartmentalize and finish this, then he would leave his parent’s house right then and wouldn’t look back. This time it really would be for good. And it was always going to end up this way; how could he have thought it might be any different? How typical of him._ _

__“We both know how this is going to go, all right, and I’m willing.” He swallowed what felt like an impossible ball of rage before he was able to continue. “As a doctor. But from here on out, I suggest that we have nothing to say to each other. Not about my life.” He jerked his head in Harry’s direction. “And not about hers. That’s the condition and if you want to fight me on it then you can just have hospice in here wiping your arse compliments of the NHS. And now you’ll pardon me because I’ve quite lost my appetite.”_ _

__He left the room, apologizing mentally to Harry as he did so, but he had no other choice._ _


	3. Chapter 3

***

John slept in later the following morning than he normally would have, clinging to that state of almost delirious semi-consciousness where the real world and the imagination intersect. He was vaguely aware that there was a reason why he wasn’t eager to get out of bed, but for a while he was blissfully able to postpone facing whatever it was.

He’d gone to sleep later than he’d planned due to the fact that, while he was rummaging through his bag for his pajamas and toothbrush the night before, he’d found a book he had not purchased or packed. It was nested in his shirts, waiting to be discovered. He was familiar with the title and the author: it was a mystery he’d been wanting to purchase for a while, but he’d continually been distracted by work and cases.

He’d chuckled mirthlessly and taken it in both hands, sitting on the edge of his mattress to look it over. Of course. Of course Sherlock had known, even before he did himself, that he’d be staying longer than a couple of days. He likely knew why, as well. John had released a long exhale.

_I find it difficult, this sort of stuff._

John had opened the book, made himself as comfortable as he could against the headboard of the bed, and read for hours. It was a good story, exactly what he needed, and for a while he was able to lose himself in it entirely.

This was what so few people ever got to witness when it came to Sherlock: he could, in fact, demonstrate emotional intelligence. Most of the time he simply chose not to, either because it was easier or because he was afraid, or (once upon a time, pre-Sherrinford) because he clung firmly to the belief that in order to obtain the truth one had to remain detached.

But since the revelation of Redbeard and Victor, of Mary’s death and...Eurus, things had been a bit different.

John revisited the musings of the night before from his semi-dozing state. He turned over restlessly, his brow furrowing.

His father didn’t know that Mary was dead. His comment from the night before was born of the assumption (which John had not done anything to dissuade prior to his arrival) that John had already separated from his wife. All John had told his mother on the phone was that Mary was no longer in the picture. 

So many lies. The point of lying was supposed to be that the lies in question were easier to carry than the truth, but in this case the lies were no picnic either. 

His parents didn’t know about Mary, and Sherlock didn’t know (by omission) who he’d had his affair with. John also had not told him directly why he was going to visit his parents. Then again, _that_ may have been because he wasn’t certain himself at the time what was going to happen; he hadn’t yet committed to the idea of staying to see it through to the end. But he was here now, he was a doctor, and...and what?

Maybe he just wanted to see the old man into the ground.

Wasn’t that a lovely thought.

John sighed and tossed back in the other direction.

_I find it difficult, this sort of stuff._

His parents deserved the lies. When people have injured you emotionally as frequently as his parents had, and from such a young age, you don’t just invite them back in to continue doing it. You don’t make yourself vulnerable to people like that. The burden of his lies to them wasn’t about guilt, but anger.

There were so many things John might have said to his father at dinner, or twenty-five years ago. But there was just no point; there never had been. It seemed so stupid to be angry with someone who was dying, but dying did not automatically make old men repent.

Being a bystander to someone else’s death didn’t automatically douse anger, either. John knew that all too well. He had been plenty angry with Sherlock after his supposed death. Much angrier with him when it turned out he _wasn’t_ dead, but still.

John was only peripherally in touch with his parents in those days before Sherlock’s fall, but he knew they were skeptical about the detective even then. _After,_ though, with everything the press had to say...well, they were as bad as anyone. Worse, even. Their minds were forever made up about him. It was Harry who had kept John in the loop about this, warning him not to answer his phone if they called. 

Sherlock could save the queen from a terrorist on live TV during her annual Christmas message and it wouldn’t make any difference to them. Where some people got so high and mighty, John would never understand.

For a moment John went from half-dozing to dreaming. 

_Sherlock, tearing after a suspect down a side street in the rain, water spraying up from under his heels as John closed in from behind._

_The long dark coat, the familiar scarf. Callused fingers on the knob of a microscope, turning it slowly with a delicate touch._

Sights which had become as comforting to John as tea and a hot shower on a cold day. 

_The feeling as one stood at the bottom of the stairs at 221, looking up at the door to their flat._

_Strains from the detective’s violin._

_Blue eyes, curious and ready to swallow the world._

John woke again abruptly and frowned, running a hand over his face.

 _Should_ he tell Sherlock about Eurus? Did it matter, really? He’d been going back and forth on the question for the last few months, never able to come up with a definitive answer. 

Not telling him felt like a lie, but the idea of telling him made John squirm. For one thing, he felt like an astronomical fool for being so deceived. For another, it was _Sherlock’s sister._ Weird. Just too weird.

Also, look at the horrific things Eurus had put Sherlock through. John didn't want Sherlock to be reminded of his sister every time he looked at him. Those two worlds simply needed to remain separate. 

For a moment, John almost wanted to laugh; after everything he’d just been through with Mary and Sherrinford and the lot of it, facing his family should be easy. Look what Sherlock had had to grow up dealing with.

But it was all too horrible to laugh about.

The other thing that prevented him from laughing was the knowledge of the assessing gaze the admission would earn him.

***

Harry knocked briskly on his door a short while later, entering before he could react. She was already dressed for the day (worn-out jeans, a grayish-black button-up top with short sleeves which had seen better days) and appeared tired but alert. She flopped down hard on the foot of his bed.

John blinked as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, squinting at her. “Harry. I’m ex-military. You might want to take care how you wake me.”

“Tsk. Or what, you might accidentally shoot me with that gun you pretend you don’t still have? Yeah, I know about it, don’t look like that. An’ I’m pretty sure you didn’t bring it with you.”

“Wouldn’t bet on that.”

“I’ll be doing the killing if you don’t get your arse out of bed and come down for brekkie with me. I’m desperate for a cuppa, but I’m not facing those two on my own again.” She squirmed against the footboard in an apparent attempt to get comfortable, and narrowed one eye at him. “You all right?”

“Of course.”

Harry had A Look about her. Something calculating. “You talk to Sherlock?”

“No. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Was just asking.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I’m going out for a smoke. Come get me when you’re dressed, but don’t take too long please. S’cold as bollocks out there.“

She disappeared, pulling the door closed behind herself, and John snorted. It hadn’t escaped him that Harry could be almost as demanding as his eccentric flatmate at times.

He was just moving to get out of bed when his mobile rang. Brow furrowing, John grabbed it off the stand. “Hey.”

There was a slight pause. “That good already?”

“You can’t deduce me with one word.”

“Can’t I?” Sherlock’s rich baritone was slightly playful, lacking its usual arrogance. “And anyway. I knew before you left.”

Neither of them spoke for a minute. John rubbed his mouth with the palm of his hand.

Sherlock skipped all further pretense. “Which one is it?”

“Him.”

The detective hummed. “How long?”

“A few weeks, I’d say. Not as long as they probably think.” When there was no immediate response, John elaborated needlessly: “Not an oncologist, of course, but I’ve seen it often enough.” Though unrelated to his father’s cancer, the memory of Sherlock’s vacant blue gaze sprang to John’s mind unbidden, immediately followed by a pang of guilt that his first thought wasn’t of Mary instead. His free hand came around his midsection to rub at his elbow. 

There was a quality of guilt in the other man’s silence, as though he’d grasped John’s thoughts. “Shall I...send you anything? More from your wardrobe?”

John sighed. “No, I think I’ve packed enough.”

“Thank heavens. I’m allergic to wool.”

John snorted. “No you aren’t, you arse.” 

He knew from the soft, amused exhale on the other end that Sherlock was smiling. His tone when he spoke, however, was sober. “Shall I offer my sympathy?”

“What would I need that for?”

“You’re my moral compass in all things civilized, John--I’m afraid you’ll need to spell this out for me. I tend to be wrong about...familial sentiment.”

“Don’t you mean _all_ sentiment?”

There was a long, purposeful exhale, and John realized that Sherlock must be pacing in front of his parent’s house, smoking a cigarette.

“Not all,” Sherlock said evenly. 

“Well.” John chewed his lip, acknowledging to himself that he was being a hypocrite: for as much as Sherlock had always kept his personal life closely guarded, John had still met his family. Knew his parents, his brother, what they were all about (regardless of said brother being the British government itself). It was probably time for him to offer something back. “Not much familial sentiment here. Never has been. So I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

“You and Harry…?”

“We’re fine. Surprisingly good, really.” He told Sherlock about his deduction that Harry was currently dry, and the confirmation of that hope at dinner. “That’s all I’ll want to remember about this, I’m sure.”

“The Watsons have never sent out Christmas cards,” Sherlock surmised.

John drew in a breath, but felt like he might choke on it. He was grateful for a sudden interruption as Sherlock’s mother’s voice intruded from the background.

_“...back inside before you freeze, Sherlock, really!”_

Sherlock sighed his best put-upon sigh, and John heard the rustling of the Belstaff and the click of Sherlock’s polished shoes on the walkway as his ill-humored friend strode back to the house. 

“No,” John confirmed. “We never did.”

When Sherlock spoke next his voice sounded closer; no doubt the acoustics changing with his migration indoors. “I’m sorry, John.” There was a hesitation. “I should let you go. We’re having brunch. Tedious.”

John smiled at the annoyance plain in the other man’s tone. “No problem.”

“Go have breakfast, you derelict.”

“Nothing escapes you. Prat.”

“Happy Christmas, John. Tell Harry for me as well.” Sherlock sounded ever-so-slightly proud of himself for remembering to tack on some manners.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock. I’ll do that. Oh! And thanks for the book. I suppose that was a Christmas present...I'm sorry I didn't leave you anything."

"Wouldn’t say that. You left your gun at the flat."

"Sherlock, if you even _consider_ \--"

“Don’t worry. It’s not within my reach at the moment.”

Once again John heard a voice in the background; this time it was distinctly Mycroft’s, but John couldn’t hear what was being said.

“John, utmost apologies but it’s official, I have to go--Fatcroft needs to get stuffed. I mean, eat.”

John laughed. “Play nice.”

“Never.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get tense.

***

John dressed and went down to find Harry, half-expecting that she’d have finished her cigarette by then and would be tucked into a corner somewhere with a cup of coffee. He was wrong.

He pulled the front door shut behind himself, giving it a bit of force as it stuck in its frame. Harry glanced up at him from where she sat on the steps, red-nosed and sniffing in the cold. She was nursing her second cigarette, taking small puffs and exhaling long streams of smoke which were probably more breath than anything else. There was a very thin film of wet snow clinging to everything and John used the side of his shoe to clear a space next to Harry. He sat, wincing at the glacial damp his jeans automatically absorbed.

“Sorry. Sherlock called.”

“Oh?”

“He says Happy Christmas.”

“You sure he’s sober?” she asked wryly.

“Actually, yes. He’s been...doing surprisingly well. I mean, maybe not surprisingly, considering everything….”

“When you’re an addict it’s always surprising,” Harry murmured, taking another tiny puff from her cigarette.

John felt it out for a moment, then decided to ask. “So...how’s it going? For you?”

Harry nodded. “You know. I think good. Trying not to make any…” she flicked ash off her cigarette and then waved her hand vaguely, “grand declarations these days. No, ‘this is it,’ or ‘I’m sure this time.’ ‘S a good way to set yourself up when you start talking like that. Bad when you know you don’t believe it. Worse when you’re dumb enough to convince yourself you’ve finally figured out invincibility.”

John nodded minutely, speechless. There was nothing remotely safe that he could say in response.

“There is one key difference this time. That much I can say.”

“And that is?”

Harry chewed the corner of her lip. “Clara. I told her move on.”

“Oh,” John breathed, truly surprised. He felt a sinking sensation behind his breastbone. He knew how much his sister loved her ex.

“I kept thinking it was me clinging to her but the thing was, she was sort of waiting. Never really coming back but both of us were just...like on pause. All the time. An’ it was hurting her, so….”

John sighed. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

She shook her head, her eyes pained but also harder than usual. “No. First right thing I’ve done in all of it. As bad as it was I felt...cleaner.” She laughed dryly. “No pun intended. That’s interesting though...wonder if that’s why they call it getting clean _and_ sober. Gotta stop lying to yourself. Get rid of your rubbish.”

John looked at her. “I’m proud of you.”

She kept her eyes averted. He nudged her with his shoulder until she looked at him.

“Look. I am. I think this sounds good. I’ve tried, you know...giving you ultimatums, but this time I’ll just say it how it is. How I hope we’ve both always known it is: whether it sticks or not, I’m here for you. And look where the fuck we are right now, Harry, I mean…” John shook his head incredulously. “If you’re sober here...I think it’s worth remembering that when things get tough.”

Harry sniffed again. It sounded wetter this time. She didn’t reply, but to John’s surprise she leaned against his shoulder. He put his arms behind himself to stay propped up, and rested his cheek against her head. She finished her cigarette and he ignored the tendrils of smoke drifting up into his face.

“They’re waiting for us in that horrid bloody lounge,” Harry said, her voice flat as stone.

John laughed.

“Color of cat-piss, it is, and just as off-putting. I’ve been having nightmares about that color since I was sixteen bloody years old. You think once he loses his shite entirely we might be able to just paint ‘round him? I mean the whole thing, the carpet, the ceiling….”

John was still chuckling. “Tempting.”

“Suppose we shouldn’t laugh.”

“What else are we going to do?”

“Mmm. Suppose that’s the ultimate question, Johnny. Other than, you know...are we ever gonna get our arses in there, and what we’re gonna do for breakfast.”

“Yeah, too cold. I guess we can’t sit here all day.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“‘S your bum as wet and cold as mine?” John shifted, making a face.

Harry cackled. “Let’s go leave prints on the couch.”

***

In the end they were able to assemble two quite dry bagels with lox and cream cheese (if you have to have a dry bagel there are worse sorts you can have) before joining their parents in the lounge.

Their mother had relocated her rocking chair from another room and parked it alongside their father’s threadbare monstrosity. He was once again set up there with his oxygen, and the two were watching telly when John and Harry came in and took a seat kitty-corner to them on the sofa.

Their mother looked them over neutrally and stood. “I’ll make some tea first.”

John found that he was really not looking forward to finding out what was going to come “after.” 

By the time their mother returned with the tray, Harry and John had finished their bagels. John’s felt like it was sitting in his stomach in a cold ball.

Anna Watson poured each cup with almost wooden precision and made sure everyone had been served to their liking (black for Stan, one sugar for Harry, just cream for John) before she fixed her own (two sugars and cream) and sat. She picked up the remote and turned the TV off, plunging them into silence.

Their father took his time, sipping at his tea. It was almost comical the way they all drank, eyeing each other pensively over the rims of their cups.

Finally, Stan cleared his throat. “We want to discuss a few details with you.” 

Their mother kept her eyes down, staring into her tea as if watching something happen there.

“Not much of a Christmas, but,” Stan continued. He shifted back to get comfortable, resting his elbow on his armrest and his cheek against his palm before regarding them matter-of-factly. “Assets and how they’ll be divided.”

Neither John or Harry reacted.

“Your mother and I have discussed this extensively since…” he gestured down his front as if to say _all this_. “So, after I’m gone your mother will move in with her friend Bridgit. There’s no sense being alone here when she’s got another friend who’s a widower and looking for company. Your mother will keep the house and rent it out so she’ll be taken care of and independent. She’ll need to modify things, namely to put in a separate kitchen upstairs. That way she’ll have two flats to let. I’ll ask you to help her get that sorted, John. Find the right people to hire...so on.”

John nodded.

“Life insurance will be divided equally amongst the three of you. My savings will be split between you two kids. Needless to say it won’t make you rich, but. John, you would have gotten the lion’s share if you’d still had a wife, maybe a child….” he shrugged in an almost flippant way, as though suddenly aggravated. “As it is, neither of you needs it more than the other, except perhaps that John is a doctor and Harriet, you’re...mmph.”

“A very poor bloody lesbian?” she offered.

John choked on his tea.

Their father’s jaw tensed, his eyes going dark. “I should have just cut you out altogether, you know.”

“That would be fine with me. I never did need your money,” Harry said plainly.

“Stop,” their mother said sharply, her voice brittle with emotion and her eyes sparking.

Harry sighed and stretched her arms along the back of the couch, leaning back.

John took his time finishing his tea.

Their father looked back and forth between the two of them for a long minute. It wasn’t clear what he was thinking. He appeared to be measuring them up. But then, John supposed, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the man look like he was doing anything else. What he could possibly be waiting to see happen was anyone’s guess at this late juncture.

“That’s all,” he concluded, sounding a little tired.

Harry was chewing her bottom lip. John felt his shoulders tense.

“Really?” Harry asked, quietly and calmly. She nodded at their father. “That’s it?”

“You know very well I haven’t got anything else,” their father snapped. 

John examined the man closely and saw that he was now wearing a hearing aid. Why he’d ever go without...well. Maybe that was the least of their concerns, it was true.

Harry let out a very long exhale. It sounded a bit like disappointment. “You haven’t got...I dunno...an ounce of understanding out of this dying business, or any desire whatsoever to try to put any of it right.”

John looked over at her, evaluating her demeanor carefully. She was looking only at their father.

“Harriet,” their mother cautioned, her tone a bit more shrill now.

Harry narrowed her eyes at her. “If you’re going to get hysterical you can just leave the room. All right? You’ve nothing to threaten me with. If either of you wants me to get out of here I’ll go. Gladly. But it’s now or never, innit? So come on, just a couple questions. Not the least bit sorry, Old Pop?”

He was digging at the fabric of his chair with the nails of his right hand. “I can not begin to imagine,” Stan said, “what it is that you think I have to be sorry for.”

Harry smiled, wide and bright. “Short memory then? All right well, this is a family holiday; suppose I can get a bit Christmas Carol. We could start with the day you renounced me, took my bedroom door off its hinges, threw the bible at me an’ clipped me in the head with it, asking me how it was I got so sick. Probably not what the good book was meant for but, any object at hand will serve when you’ve had a couple drinks. I know about that. ‘Cept I’ve never actually taken aim at a _person_. I’m not a parent though, so maybe you can enlighten me.” She leaned forward on the couch toward him, resting her elbows on her knees, eyes wide and beseeching. “Is it that I’m a good-for-nothing homosexual, or is it that I’m a good-for-nothing homosexual _you_ produced?”

He stared back at her, anger written in every tense line of his body. Stan coughed a few times, and John thought the old man might even be shaking slightly.

“The worst part,” Harry went on, her voice growing tighter, “is I can’t explain it to you. Not ever. Doesn’t matter what I say--you’ll never understand. You were born what the world deems ‘normal,’ yeah? An’ just like you were born that way, this is how I am. ‘Cept what _you_ are is okay--despite that you’re so bloody hateful--and me...well old man, there’s no justice in the world because you get to die without ever walkin’ a day in my shoes and knowing what it is to want to die ‘cause everything that’s supposed to be good in your life is _wrong_ according to everyone else. Every moment of joy in your life. _Dirty._ ”

Their parents were quiet, but it was an angry silence. Anna had clutched the arm of Stan’s chair with one bony hand. Stan’s mouth was closed, but his jaw worked like he might be gritting his back teeth.

“I’ve done the stuff people are supposed to do. I’ve fallen in love. Got married. Was a good for nothin’ alcoholic--I couldn’t be functional like you, Pop, I got lucky an’ took after grandpa--I held down jobs, lost ‘em, went to rehab, in and out again, got divorced. I coulda done all of that and been straight and you both probably would have been supportive, huh? Oh well, maybe not--look at John, huh? But the point for you is that I had to go bugger everything up by loving a woman. An’ I know you aren’t gonna apologize. That’s fine. I just wanted to make sure this was where we really stood. And I can see it is.”

Harry sat back.

Anna was looking fixedly at Stan, who was still watching Harry. John looked back and forth between the three of them. He stood as though mechanized, unable to stay still a single moment longer. “Anyone want any, I don’t know, water? Fresh tea?”

No one said anything. Finally, Anna spoke. “Water.”

John nodded briskly and was in motion before he was even aware of it.

In the kitchen he paused in front of the sink to take a deep breath. His left hand was trembling. He stared down the drain and wondered how, how he could possibly make it through this in one piece. He couldn’t even breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up soon: some conversations, both between John and Harry and John and Sherlock, where more is said than our army doctor could ever have anticipated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to comfort his sister, and she drops a bombshell on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a pretty good idea at this point of all the different things coming up. Putting it all together is what's taking the longest. I'm not sure I've ever worked on something that felt this labor-intensive before, outside of poetry. But I'm committed to it and always excited to sit down and chip away, so hopefully the updates will continue to happen quickly from here on out. Thanks for reading!

***

_We both know how this is going to go, all right, and I’m willing. As a doctor. But from here on out, I suggest that we have nothing to say to each other. Not about my life. And not about hers. That’s the condition and if you want to fight me on it then you can just have hospice in here wiping your arse compliments of the NHS._

Well, that was already going well. 

John never returned to the lounge with the water. He’d instead gone up to his room and sat on the bed, running one hand through his hair, scratching his scalp and wondering what he should do about that last little scene or if it was worth doing anything at all.

After a minute or two, he heard the floorboards in the hall creak. Harry. 

John heard her door shut. He hesitated only a moment before rising to check on her. He crossed the hall and knocked on her door with one knuckle. “Harry?”

No answer.

He opened her door and felt his heart wrench unpleasantly in his chest. His sister was curled up on the bed, crying (quietly, but he could tell). 

Watching her like that made John feel about fourteen years old all over again.

He sat on the bed by her head, quietly, letting Harry decide whether she wanted to talk or not.

Harry didn’t say anything for a long minute. Then, finally, “Why do they...hate me so much for who I am?” She sniffed. “I fuckin’ hate crying. I’m so bloody mad at myself.”

John, frowning, ran a hand over her hair. “They don’t like me so much either, and I’m straight.”

Harry just shook harder. Finally she inhaled, a little gasping sound that didn’t sound quite right, and John looked at her more closely. “Are you--are you laughing?”

She didn’t, or couldn’t, answer. She continued to laugh, silently, her mouth open. She finally drew another breath and whooped with laughter, another tear squeezing out of the corner of her eye.

“I really don’t know what just happened,” John said, puzzled. “What did I say?”

She just shook her head. She calmed slowly over the next couple of minutes, then sat up. She had regained her seriousness. “Are you angry with me? For how I’m handling him?”

He leveled a look at her. "No. I'm not. No one can tell you how to process all this, Harry. This is between you and them. It has nothing to do with me, in the end."

“Eh…” she shook her head. "It does, though. It affected you, John. A lot. Back then."

John shrugged, his nonverbal version of _so what?_

"Don't dismiss it. It did. That's...well."

"What?"

"No, it's nothing."

"Okay, obviously it's something. Come on, Harry. Spit it out."

She sighed. "It will make you feel bad. You won't take it the right way."

"So tell me, and then explain."

"All right. Fine. It affected you. A lot. It mattered to you. That's why I left."

"Um...what?"

"It caused a lot of chaos when I came out. Too much. It was awful here, and it was affecting you. I didn't want that for you. So I left. But that was my choice. Don't go thinking you're, I dunno, to blame or sommat for it."

"Harry, that's...I mean...I'm just, confused. It was rough, yeah, but anyone with parents like ours could expect that sort of fallout. What makes you think it was hard enough for _me_ that you needed to...for fuck's sake, Harry, leave home at seventeen? Drop out of school?"

Harry was chewing hard on the inside corner of her lip. She fixed John with a guilty look, her eyes watering. “John.”

“Really, Harry, I need to know. Please tell me.”

She growled, a loud, aggravated thing. She raked her hands back through her short hair and kept them there, looking at him angrily. “I can’t just, not fuck this up can I.”

John just shook his head, bewildered, to show he had no idea what she was going on about.

“Look, Johnny.” She finally brought her hands down and wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them to her chest. “I want to thank you for all the times you came out to some bar and dragged my arse off the stool. I want you to know I appreciate that, because things haven’t been okay between us in a very long time, and I appreciate you trying to pretend like it’s all normal because that’s what you’ve always tried to do--just keep shit even. Everywhere you go, you’re like glue. Or cement. Something. Anyway, I’m going to get very real with you right now.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Okay?”

She looked very apprehensive. “If you get mad then you do, I suppose. But...I didn’t want you around it anymore, all that hateful shite they were putting on me back then. ‘Cause I thought...well. I had some idea you were a bit...similar. Not gay, mind, but...not...you know.”

John just stared at her, a sour feeling beginning to churn in his stomach.

She chewed the inside corner of her lip again and looked away, looking even more guilty. She picked at the duvet. 

“Wow. You...really.” John folded his arms across his chest, mentally blown over by what she’d said. “You really thought that? So strongly that you _left_?”

“I felt like I wrecked something for you. I knew that with them talking like that you’d just...you’d never be yourself. You cared too much what they thought. I...took away part of you, John, and you….” she stopped, her voice suddenly sucked away by a harsh sob.

“What? Harry--” Alarmed, John strong-armed her closer to him and hugged her. He felt a strange mix of--he wasn’t certain. Sadness? Apprehension? For once there seemed to be no space for anger. All he could think of right then was everything that had shaped the wreck his sister had become when she’d turned to alcohol. To some extent, John supposed, he was a very similar wreck--just, more neatly contained.

He stroked Harry’s hair again and waited several long minutes. When she spoke again, her voice was muffled against his shoulder. He could feel the heat of her flushed face close to his neck. “I think you would have been happy years ago if not for me.”

He squeezed her and whispered, “Harry. What, the ever-loving fuck, are you on about.”

She hiccuped lightly, then said, with almost palpable effort, “Sherlock.”

John pushed Harry gently away from him and stared at her intently. 

She still looked guilty, but now she met his eyes without faltering. “You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to think very hard, John, if we didn’t have the upbringing we did, what you would have done when you first met ‘im. Really, think about it. You’re perfect for each other and neither one of you is willing to see it for what it is.”

John inhaled deeply through his nose. “I...Harry….” He swallowed, thinking fast. “I’m...not going to focus on what you said just now, all right, but the thought behind it. Why would you ever imagine for a moment that any of that would be your fault? Whether you told our parents you were a lesbian or not, they were still going to be the people that they are.”

“But by the time they realized, you might’ve been old enough not to listen to them.”

“What even...what could _possibly_ have given you the idea that I was...I don’t know...?” He couldn’t even say what Harry was thinking. 

“Do you remember your friend Dylan?”

John nodded slowly.

“You were young, but...the way you teased each other, an’ the way you talked about him when he wasn’t around...it just felt to me like there was...well, like you were smitten. Both of you.”

John thought hard, remembering his friend. Dylan had been a dark-haired boy with green eyes and lightly freckled skin. He had been sporty and funny and pretty much everything John had aspired to be at that age. For the life of him, though, John couldn’t remember anything beyond that. He did recall that Dylan started moving in a different social circle within a couple of years of the peak of their friendship, and eventually they’d become strangers to each other. 

“I...barely remember him, Harry.”

“Nevermind. Thing is, I was never a hundred percent certain. ‘Til I heard you talk about Sholto, then Sherlock. In all the time you’ve known him, every time I’ve spoken to you, eighty percent of the conversation has been ‘Sherlock did this’ and ‘Sherlock said that.’ There’s someone being your best friend, John, and then there’s someone being your everything. Sherlock Holmes is your everything. And I’m trying to do you a favor by telling you to stop seein’ yourself through our parents’ eyes and start seein’ _him_ through your own.”

John thought of the parade of girlfriends who had tired of seeing and hearing about Sherlock and made their departure; the smug, amused looks he’d catch flashing across Lestrade’s face when the DI would visit 221B and witness the silent but well-choreographed routine of Sherlock and John preparing their tea--or each other’s--without exchanging a word; Mrs. Hudson’s subtle but persistent inferences.

He looked away from Harry. 

She surprised him by reaching over, loosening his fist where it lay on his thigh, and then covering his hand with hers. “When we all thought he was dead, John…I’ve never seen anyone grieve as hard as you did for him. You can’t tell me you ever got over it. Your happiness is tied so directly to that man. Please just think it over.”

John fixed his gaze on the scenery outside the window.

“I let go of Clara. But the two of you...I don’t want to see you make the mistake of letting it go to waste. Most people only lose each other once. What are you gonna keep waiting for?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer chapter this time: a history of Harriet Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

***

Harry had met Sherlock twice, and both times had been by accident.

The first time came about during one of Harry’s frequent rough patches with her sobriety. It was actually the second such rough patch she’d had since John had first moved into 221B, and it was shortly after their stint in Dartmoor for the Baskerville case. John had managed to keep the first incident out from under Sherlock’s scrutiny. As much as the detective liked to believe nothing could be concealed from him, that wasn’t always true. You only had to know some of what the detective ordinarily looked for and then find ways to make him think that what he was seeing was something else. The catch was that not many people could do that because not many people knew Sherlock Holmes as well as John Watson did (and John knew Sherlock quite well very quickly).

John hid that first rough patch merely by donning what he knew Sherlock had started to consider his “date shoes”--it was true that they were the only slightly dressy shoes John owned--and stopping at a bar on the way home from seeing to Harry, each time, to score the number of a pretty girl. (John’s charm worked out well for him here; it was usually possible.)

The second time, however, John was run down from working overtime at the clinic and stressed out in too many different directions to play “hide the drunken sister.” The detective would just have to mind his own business. Which was like thinking that if you placed a pen on a table directly in front of a cat, then the cat would simply have to behave. In reality, 9.5 times out of 10 the pen will end up being knocked onto the floor.

“How’djaknow where I was?” Harry had slurred on that fated night as John unceremoniously grabbed her arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, boosting her off her bar stool with practiced ease. Her head flopped forward, her slightly overgrown side-swept bangs falling over her eyes.

“How I always know, Harry. The bartenders see you, they get your name, they call the cops, Lestrade knows me, and I get a call.”

“Les-who?”

“Know what, it’s not important.” And it was the third time that week that John was making an impromptu late-night trip to pick up Harry from some establishment or other, so maybe it was a _little_ important actually. “Next time, Harry, I’m letting you sit in jail for a bit.”

She tried to pull away from him, but she wasn’t nearly coordinated enough. “Fuck you will!”

John ducked his head down and got his mouth close to her ear. All he could smell was her boozy breath. He pitched his voice low and said, flat and deadly-serious, “Try me, Harry.”

She turned her head away angrily, but said nothing else as John finished paying her tab and hauled her out onto the street. Where he almost ran smack into Sherlock.

John stopped short at the sight of the detective. Harry, not watching but merely letting John lead her blindly, likewise halted abruptly (emitting a low groan against her brother’s shoulder). Sherlock stared back, his hawk-like gaze running over first John and then--with the slightest hint of surprise--Harry. He did not look particularly apologetic about being caught stalking. 

John sighed. “Get a cab,” he ordered, mentally vowing to give Sherlock what-for. Later. Much later. After sleep and a large breakfast. When he felt a bit less like punching everything and maybe wasn’t even just a tad grateful that he wouldn’t have to haul Harry up the steps to her apartment on his own again.

Sherlock, surprisingly, did as he was asked without question; a cab stopped for them in record time. He even held the door for John while he stuffed first his sister in and then himself. Sherlock slid in next to them, at least demonstrating enough sense to give John a margin of space.

The cab jerked slightly as it pulled back into the traffic, and Harry groaned again. John pretended not to notice the cabbie narrowing his eyes in the rear-view, clearly worrying about any potential cleanup.

After a minute, however, Harry seemed to become more alert as she took in who their third party was. She leaned forward in her seat to peer around John at Sherlock. She looked back and forth between the two men, a wide, cat-who-got-the-canary grin spreading over her face.

“You’re ‘im?” she nodded at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked once. “I am myself, yes. I presume that you are Harriet.”

“Harry.” She hiccuped. “What--what gave it away? Was it the short and blonde or the rude n’ pissed?” She giggled uncontrollably. 

Sherlock inhaled and began enthusiastically, “Actually--”

“Don’t,” John intercepted. “Please don’t start with her.”

“Oi, let ‘im,” Harry protested, elbowing John’s side a bit too hard. She grinned at Sherlock and hissed conspiratorially, “He admires you. Show me why.”

John sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, closing his eyes with extreme patience. “I swear to Christ, Harriet.”

“Oh, well, don’t do that. Who’d be their favorite then? An’ don’t tell me I need to tell you to tell--I mean, call me--” _hiccup_ “what?...Harry too.”

“I’m aware of John’s admiration,” Sherlock said. “He’s made it known to all of Scotland Yard. And the few sad readers of his blog.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up her forehead and she turned to John, looking at him meaningfully.

John began to fume in a very restrained manner. “Yes,” he said, practically through his teeth, “Sherlock is a very impressive consulting detective, and that is why I work with him. But I don’t think I came out tonight to discuss me, Harriet. And yes, I know your name, thank you, _Harriet Adelaide Watson_ and yes, Sherlock, my sister has an embarrassing middle name too, how’s that--but getting back to the matter at hand, _Harriet,_ I rather think that you can consider yourself the center of attention at the moment and I believe what we will be discussing, once you are temporarily sober,” (okay that was just mean but he couldn’t hold it in) “is you. And this. This ridiculous groundhog day scenario I keep finding myself in where I keep coming out to assist you at all hours of the day and night after I’ve already run myself ragged all day wiping snotty noses and diagnosing piles you-don’t-want-to-know-how. For some reason, I keep doing _this_.” His voice had gradually grown louder as he went on, to the point where he was nearly yelling by the end. He visibly reigned himself in and drew a deep breath.

There was deafening silence for a while.

 _“Really?”_ Sherlock finally asked, turning to John indignantly, eyes narrowed. “Hamish and Adelaide? And you question _my_ parents’ taste?”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose.

~~~

When they arrived at Harriet’s place, Sherlock had the good grace to complain very little as he helped John get his inebriated sister up the stairs to her flat. They paused on the landing, trying to keep their awkward trio balanced as John produced a key from his pocket and wiggled it in the lock in the precise way it required. He was aware, as he did it, that he was being deduced all the while.

“Don’t wake Jeremy,” Harriet suddenly commanded.

“Then don’t stumble around like an elephant like last time,” John retorted, far too tired by that point to even try to sound like a mature adult.

The three of them were not exactly as quiet as church mice as they came in: Harry almost fell over sideways while Sherlock attempted to balance her so John could pry her shoes off.

“Ooo Jesus--!”

“Shh!” John reminded her.

Harry hiccuped, then giggled. “Guess fear doesn’t get rid of ‘em.”

John sighed.

Sherlock was left to his own devices in the messy lounge, deducing god only knew what from the detritus of his sister’s life, while John got Harry settled into bed. 

She made a face at him as she burrowed under her messy duvet. Harry had never with bothered making her bed, not as a teen and most definitely not as an adult. “Why don’t you want me to talk to him?”

“You’re hardly in any state to converse with Sherlock Holmes, Harry, believe me. I was trying to do you a favor.”

“What--why--I mean….” she looked confused. “You brought him with you?”

“No. He found me.”

“How?”

“I couldn’t answer that even if I wanted to.” John pulled a t-shirt off Harry’s bedside lamp and flung it across her room. “And I really don’t. Just go to sleep. We’ll talk about this later.”

“He’s a good friend though. Sherlock.” Harry scratched a hand through her hair and yawned widely, eyes bleary.

“Yup,” John said shortly, untangling her feet from her sheets and tucking in the duvet at the foot of the bed.

“I miss Clara,” Harry said, and just like that she was teary. “Don’t be alone like me, John.”

He grasped her footboard and studied her face impatiently, watching her lower lip wibble. This was always his least favorite part: as bad as the rest of it was, any time he had to come out and get her, historically, the night would end in tears. And it wasn’t that he didn’t have any sympathy for her...he just had to try harder and harder to find it each time. “Don’t worry about me,” he finally said. “I’m fine. I’m not alone.”

The tears coursed down her face. “Good. It sucks.”

“Look,” John said levelly, changing the topic, “you see who I’m working with. You know I’m involved with the Met and that what Sherlock is doing is gaining more and more attention in the press, partly due to my blog. He’s only going to be in the public eye more and more as this goes on. You’re probably too drunk to even get half of what I’m saying right now, but I’m telling you for your own good that this has got to stop because if _he’s_ highly visible, then so am I, and by extension so are you. Is this how you want to be known? By all of London?”

More silent tears. Harry just stared at him, eyes red and full of shame. 

John felt a stab of sadness and desperation deep in his chest, but forced himself to disregard it. “Harry, my other point is that the people I interact with on a daily basis are _not nice_. If they see you as an easy target, you will be in danger. Do you hear me? Just fucking nod, all right?”

A long moment of silence, pregnant with Harry’s remorse. Then she nodded.

“Great. All right. Take that to heart, please. I mean it.” He released the footboard. “I’ll be right back.” He left the room, intending on grabbing some water and paracetamol for her, but as he stepped into the lounge he almost (for the second time that night) ran into Sherlock chest-first. The detective was already holding a full glass and two pills, all of which he had of course located in the dark despite never having set foot in Harry’s apartment before. He had evidently gathered the required items and then just happened to position himself close enough to Harry’s room to overhear their conversation.

John glared at him as he took the water and pills. “Are you quite done?” he asked coldly. Sherlock had the gall to feign confusion (or actually be confused, who knew), which was no great surprise.

John stormed back to Harry’s room with the supplies before he could scream from aggravation. He unceremoniously deposited the items on her nightstand. “Drink that, take those, you know the drill.” He turned off the lamp and went to make his exit.

“John?”

He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “What.”

“Thanks.”

He nodded once, shortly, and pulled her door most of the way closed. He didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes as he passed him.

\---

“Why? Why did you follow me?” John asked as soon as they were both in a cab and heading back to Baker Street.

“As you have noticed,” Sherlock said, his tone completely level, “I tend to attract the notice of some unsavory characters. You’ve been disappearing all week without explanation, and were visibly distressed when you came home. I felt obligated to ensure that you were safe.”

“Well, don’t put yourself out on my behalf.”

“It’s no trouble,” Sherlock said easily.

John hesitated, his mouth hanging partly open, and then he laughed and shook his head, rubbing his hand over his brow. He wasn’t sure whether to define _sarcasm_ to his clueless friend, or to actually feel touched.

Sherlock arched one eyebrow, puzzled, but said nothing else. Until they were back at the flat.

“Why did you feel the need to hide what you were doing?”

John, who had gone straight to the kettle to make some chamomile, held a hand up in Sherlock’s direction as though to ward him off. “I’m tired, Sherlock.”

“Perhaps tonight, yes, but surely--”

John turned without warning. “You know, for a _brilliant_ man, you can be _remarkably_ thick. I wasn’t answering your question. Telling you I’m tired is my way of trying to say, politely, ‘I don’t want to discuss this Sherlock,’ because get this--” John spread his hands and blinked hard as if to say _wait for it_ “--I’m not always going to answer every one of your questions. I am not a _suspect_ , Sherlock.”

The detective frowned. “Is that how I make you feel?”

“No, please, no more discussion of feelings.” John barked a laugh. “I don’t feel anything. What I feel, is tired. What I’m _doing_ , is having some tea and going the fuck to bed. Is that _quite_ okay?”

“You don’t need my permission,” Sherlock said softly, chastened.

“Oh, I don’t? Thank you.”

Sherlock hung his coat and scarf up, muttering something about “...high level of sarcasm….” indicating that he was, in fact, familiar with the concept at least.

And no more was said about Harriet. John was uncomfortably aware, all the same, that in becoming so emotionally overwrought he had merely highlighted the significance of the entire event in Sherlock’s mind.

~~~

The second time Sherlock met Harry, John felt that he was entirely to blame.

He had tried to throw off his friend’s built-in lie detector by sticking to a story that was close to the truth: he was going out for dinner, but he likely wouldn’t be out too late. He’d even told him he was thinking of trying a new Korean restaurant he’d had his eye on.

So logically Lestrade had called Sherlock with a case while John was out, and Sherlock had tracked John down as though he had a GPS tracker on him (John had checked himself often enough for a tracker that he was at least 85% certain Sherlock did not, in fact, have one on him).

Harriet was sober that time and feeling contrite but adrift, and John had taken pity on her and agreed to meet her for a meal. She’d been palpably relieved at his acceptance.

Shortly after the food had been set down before them, while John was listening to his sister talk, he had looked up and paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Right away he had known it would be a meal he wouldn’t actually get a chance to enjoy.

Without asking permission, Sherlock stole a chair from their neighbors (moving a woman’s purse in order to do it, much to the outraged consternation of what was presumably the absent woman’s family) and joined them, seating himself swiftly and scooting right up to the table. 

His first remark was, “Interesting.”

Harry had grinned as though Houdini himself had just walked up and planted a hungry tiger down on their tablecloth. She looked from Sherlock to John, unable to hide the sparkle of amusement in her eye.

John was less enchanted. “What is?” he asked flatly.

Sherlock’s gaze swept the restaurant once more before he regarded Harry thoughtfully. “You have an extra cup by your left elbow. You’ve moved it out of the way because your waiter neglected to collect it after you’d finished your coffee. I’d estimate you arrived approximately ten to fifteen minutes prior to your brother. And yet….” his gaze swept over her. “You are sitting with your back facing to the door. Not what most people would do, especially when anticipating the arrival of a second party to dinner--a party who they are anxious may not show. It’s evident that you know John well; he’s never told you but you’ve observed his dislike of having his back to a room, and so you made certain to leave him the space by the wall. Subconsciously it makes him feel that he’s in control and can manage any potential incoming threat, but in reality this quirk left over from his days in Afghanistan reveals his vulnerabilities. You’re protective of him, but you let him think he’s protecting you.”

Harry’s eyes widened, but before she could speak, Sherlock plowed on.

“You’re tired but not hungover; your hair is a bit longer than you ordinarily prefer it. Conclusion: you’ve been busy recently and you stayed out late last night. I’d say a new relationship but if that was the case you’d be hyper-vigilant about your appearance for at least the first five months, so it isn’t that. You’ve been in rehab: a hospital setting, so likely forced. Last night you were out celebrating your new beginning, but it was a front to a degree because you weren’t actually enjoying yourself.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and peered into Harry’s face intently, as though dissecting her. “Why do you feel so guilty over John?” 

“Whew!” Harry exclaimed. “John, I see it. I do. If I wasn’t a lesbian I’d need a cigarette right now.”

“Don’t deflect,” Sherlock said quietly, almost predatory in the way that his shrewd gaze never left her face.

Needless to say John had ejected Sherlock from the table post-haste. The mad hatter of a detective hissed and sputtered about Lestrade and The Case (which only turned out to be a 6 in the end) and was only convinced to leave after several minutes of back-and-forth by John absolutely _promising_ to destroy every single bit of scientific equipment in the flat if Sherlock did not _get the fuck immediately out._

***

In other words, it only took Sherlock Holmes four minutes to deduce what Harriet Watson would need several more years and her father’s impending death to admit about why she’d left home at seventeen, unprepared and broken-hearted.

But it was still going to take John Watson to help Sherlock Holmes understand _why_ she did it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Years Eve; Sherlock calls John and they have a revealing chat. 
> 
> Later, John has a dream that disturbs him greatly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry--I'm sorry if it feels like this is dragging, but John will return home in the next chapter! <3

***

Their father's condition began to worsen at a steady pace over the next several days. He was only able to sleep if he remained in his chair (he couldn't breathe well lying down), and he was coughing more and was less mobile. John quickly became more instrumental to Stan’s dressing and washing. It was draining, but as John was a doctor by trade he was able to separate himself emotionally well enough to get the job done.

Thing was, end-stage care was intimate. And there were so many emotional boundaries between John and his father that every act of assistance felt loaded with potential pitfalls. Stan Watson was a proud man who did not relish needing help from anyone, and through John and Harry's upbringing he had never been demonstrative with any sort of affection. There could be no sense of equilibrium now in the idea of returning care to a parent who had once tended his children. It was all unbalanced and unnatural.

John knew that if he tried to show any delicacy or made any overt move to forge a bond between them during their last days together, Stan would become defensive at being made to feel pitiable.

Fortunately, as it stood, John felt no such urge. He wished he could; that his father was the sort of man he could grieve for.

Harry helped out around the house by doing laundry, fetching tea, getting groceries (Stan was eating less now and no longer able to give them a good idea as to what he might want to eat, since he didn't know) and trying to keep their mother sane by lessening her burden.

It wasn't easy for Anna. John and Harry did not get along with their parents, but Mr. and Mrs. Watson had been married for close to fifty years and they loved each other in the myriad ways that come with such a long relationship. 

Anna sat down next to Stan, in the lounge, for dinner each night. The two would then talk quietly as she helped him eat, and John would watch them with a sense of unsettling disconnect. These people seemed to have so little to do with him.

And yet something about it put an ache in his chest. He wanted it all to hurt more than it did; it hurt that it didn’t hurt more.

***

Though John had known from the beginning that there was no chance he’d be home in time for New Year’s, the pang of homesickness he felt on the day itself told him that he was disappointed all the same. He wanted nothing more than 221B and their drunken friends singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”, Mrs. Hudson hovering constantly and trying to stuff them full of treats. Molly in a pretty dress being eyed by Lestrade, leftover Christmas crackers, and Sherlock playing the violin. He could almost smell the scented candles Mrs. Hudson always brought up when he thought hard enough about it.

When Sherlock called him that night, pretending to be grouchy about the yearly festivities, John was unspeakably grateful that Mrs. Hudson had insisted on carrying on with the annual party so that his friend wasn’t alone. Sherlock didn’t like to admit it, but he did love these get-togethers, so long as they were infrequent.

The detective had shut himself in his room to make the call (and pretend to sulk in general). He still wasn’t at ease with the emotional thaw he’d been going through since Sherrinford, so there was no chance he’d come out directly and just say, “I wish you were here.”

“Sherlock,” John said with the patience of one instructing a small child (because this was his part in the game), “go out and socialize. Say hello to everyone.”

Sherlock snorted, unamused.

“You’ll hurt Mrs. Hudson’s feelings.”

“No I won’t. She knows better. And what about _my_ feelings?”

“Being a scrooge isn’t a defensible moral ground to stand upon.”

“There’s no such thing as a scrooge post-Christmas.”

“So we’re back to 'everyday arsehole', then?” John teased.

Sherlock hummed. “All right, that I am. But who will entertain you if I do as you say? You can’t convince me you’re having much fun otherwise.”

John was surprised; it was sort of sweet of Sherlock to call in an actual attempt to cheer him up. “Uh...well. Not particularly, now that you put it that way.” Besides, now he really wanted to see how this was going to pan out.

“How are things...progressing?”

“Steadily. We’re up to toothettes and sponge baths and limited mobility.”

“Medications?”

“Tramadol, Fentanyl patch, Lorazepam, anti-nausea tablets. We’ll need to start Morphine before too much longer. From there...it shouldn't take long.”

“I see,” Sherlock said quietly. “How is Harriet?”

John pursed his lips briefly, a subconscious tic he got when he was perplexed. “I suppose she’s all right. We haven’t really spoken much over the last couple of days. Mostly she keeps her head down, helps Mum. Helps Dad when I ask. They have no idea how good she is--how hard it is for her to be here.”

There was a long, thoughtful pause. “I was luckier than most when it came to my parents.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm. I don’t recall ever worrying about not being ‘accepted’ by them. I understood innately that they cared only for my happiness--nothing so trite as which gender I preferred. I didn’t take much interest in anyone anyway; I was too invested in my studies.”

John was seized with a sudden desire to keep his normally reticent friend talking. “Never?”

“Well, not until university.”

John’s voice took on a cheeky tone, “what happened at uni then? You started dating?”

“Only a bit. Nowhere near as ambitiously as you, Mr. Three-Continents,” Sherlock jibed.

“And here I can so easily imagine you sneaking in and out of dorm rooms at all hours of the night.”

“Just one or two, perhaps.”

“Anyone in particular?” John couldn’t quite believe he was asking. He’d been curious about this side of Sherlock for years though, and maybe now--while everything felt a little bit less real with the physical distance between them--was the perfect time to probe.

“Hmm.” Sherlock’s tone turned distant, reminiscent. “First love, all that sort of bollocks.”

John laughed outright. “Bollocks, sure. That describes first love to a T.”

“Well I thought it was love, anyway. In retrospect perhaps not so much.” A moment of pause in consideration of the past. “We smoked a lot of marijuana.”

“Oh--sounds dreamy.”

“Yes well, as I said--a _lot_ of marijuana.”

They both laughed.

“So...just the one, then?”

“There were one or two other fleeting interests, but nothing so involved.”

John swallowed. “What made you swear off relationships, then?”

“Oh, I thought I’d had the experience and that it was like anything else, you know. It just didn’t feel that vital to me. I didn’t...connect in the way I gather one is supposed to.” He sounded thoughtfully bored.

“You gather? You still don’t know?”

Sherlock sighed and John heard a bunch of rustling that he guessed meant his lanky friend had comfortably sprawled out across his mattress. When he spoke again there was a slight strain in his voice, which John recognized meant that he was having a nice stretch. “I have since come to the conclusion that, for me, if I were to involve myself in a meaningful long-term relationship...there are probably very few people in this world I would be able to, er...endure. And then of course it needs to be reciprocal. You’ve seen me with people, John.”

John chuckled. “I see. Well, Sherlock, for your sake and...as my friend, I hope that you will have that one day. If you decide to, you know, burden yourself with all of that...love bollocks.” 

“Well. Thank you. I hope the same for you, John.”

John bit his lip, hesitated. “I hate to keep harping on this but...Irene? Anything there?”

Sherlock made a very un-Sherlockian sound, something like a huff that was half-laughter. Then he just groaned. “John.”

“What?”

“I would have thought that over the _many_ years you have known me, at some point it would have become _starkly_ evident to you that I am gay.”

John inhaled, but his mind had stalled.

“You can’t say that I’ve surprised you.” Sherlock sounded perplexed.

“Well,” John reasoned, “it isn’t as if you date, and you said that relationships weren’t your area. I thought maybe you were...asexual?”

“John, you _are_ aware that ‘asexual’ doesn’t mean that a person never craves physical or emotional intimacy? And that it has nothing whatsoever to do with orientation?”

John’s brow furrowed. “What? It doesn’t? How?”

“It’s complicated.”

A short, pregnant pause, and then John felt his mouth say (completely independently), “Do you? Crave...those things.”

Now Sherlock was the one caught off guard. He knew as well as John did that they were treading new ground, ground they had always silently agreed before was off-limits. 

Maybe, John mused, things were different now? After everything Sherlock had been through, and now that he was clean again, and now that John was once again back at Baker Street and single? Because, that was, they were both free to pursue whatever relationships they desired. Maybe Sherlock would, now?

John felt strangely discomfited by the thought. He sort of wanted things to just go back to how they had been in the beginning: just the two of them, and the cases. Sure, it would be a _little_ different, but….

“Sometimes I do. Yes.” Sherlock sounded almost wistful. 

John’s throat tightened. He swallowed thickly. 

“Also,” Sherlock elaborated, all wistfulness gone, “I’m not asexual.”

John chuckled. “Right. Well. Do me a favor if you do decide to bring someone back to the flat and put a sock on the doorknob, yeah?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have no such intentions.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m perfectly content with the way things are.”

“You may not always be.”

“Well,” Sherlock sighed. “Don’t move out again.”

John felt a strange, buzzing warmth fill him. He felt almost shy as he answered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Another long pause.

"I'm afraid you're too late for the Christmas pudding."

John rolled his eyes. "Suppose I'll just have to live with that."

"Don't worry. Mrs. Hudson knows what's going on. She's weepy. You'll come back to ten kinds of biscuit I've no doubt."

"Oh, Sherlock...you shouldn't have told her."

"Maybe I thought you'd _want_ ten sorts of biscuit."

"I'm fine."

"Maybe _I_ wanted ten sorts of biscuit."

John laughed again. "Sounds more likely."

“It’s almost midnight,” Sherlock said disdainfully.

“Better go out and ring in the New Year with our company.”

“‘Our’? You aren’t even here.”

“It’s still our flat.”

Sherlock chose not to argue semantics any further. Instead, he asked--soberly, and with a touch of concern--“When are you coming home, John?”

John hesitated. It seemed that his father was now at a tipping point, but the truth was that he could either worsen rapidly or continue to linger. There were certain end-stage signals to look for, and they hadn’t yet appeared. John had been getting very little sleep; more often than not he kept one eye open so that he wouldn’t miss a dose of his father’s pain medication. Bad telly helped him stay awake most nights. Adrenaline, bad dreams, dread, and homesickness fueled the remainder of his time. 

“I wish I knew,” he answered truthfully. “Frankly, I’m...a bit exhausted. I’ll update you as I know though.”

“All right. I suppose I’ll make an appearance now so Mrs. Hudson isn’t even more intolerable than usual tomorrow.”

John smiled faintly. “Happy New Year, Sherlock.”

“Happy New Year. Doctor Watson.”

***

Harry spent the night dosing their father with his medications so that John could sleep in his own room, in an actual bed, in order to refresh himself a little.

That was the idea, anyway.

~~~

_”You can’t make it go away by not listening! Doesn’t work like that! D’ya hear me Pop? I’m gay and it ain’t gonna change!”_

_Harriet at sixteen, screaming at their father in the kitchen while John stood in the doorway, wide-eyed._

_Stan Watson slamming Harriet against the wall and pointing a finger directly in her face. “I said stop!”_

_Harry laughing. Their father pulling her back, slamming her back against the wall again._

_“Stop! It! Now!”_

_Sherlock’s wide, pale blue eyes._

__Irene’s voice: _Somebody loves you--_

_Sherlock on the floor of the morgue, propping himself up weakly._

_“Is this--” screaming in Sherlock’s face--_

__Irene: _If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid the nose and teeth too_

_\--A hard punch, Sherlock’s nose gushing-- “a bloody game??!”_

_“Stop! It! Now!”_

_“Bloody game??!”_

_“Never forgive you--” Harry disappearing out the door with a bag on her shoulder--_

~~~

John thrashed and woke, disoriented for a moment at how dark it was in the room. The second thing he became aware of was that he had completely sweat through his shirt. He drew a deep breath and rubbed his face with both hands, noting distantly that he was shaking from head to toe.

He sat up quickly and reached for the glass on his nightstand, chugging his water. His heart was still beating hard. 

“Shit,” he whispered. He pressed his hand over his mouth and a violent shiver passed over him. “Oh...fuck.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally returns to 221b. He has a lot of baggage with him though, and not all of it is the sort that can be laundered and put back on the shelf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of cancer and end-of-life care. If it will bother you, please skip the first 6 paragraphs.
> 
> So, I'm not sure what this is. Or if it's any good. Or if it makes sense. All I do know is that this chapter is long, so I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> I am so sorry I stalled out so long on this--I can't tell you how many times I edited this chapter. I think there are a lot of contributing factors, including that this fic is personal to me in that I spent my mother's last hours with her and I think this dredged some of that up. 
> 
> BUT. John returns home in this chapter, FINALLY, and we get to see him and Sherlock together again. Which is where our boys belong. Thank you so much for reading.

***

It was mid-January before John got on a train back to London.

The last throes of Stan Watson's illness did not last long, but to John they felt interminable: a run-on sentence of sponge baths, medications, and unpredictable mood swings once his father’s lucidity had gone. 

Some of the days were so trying that John felt an impulsive urge to walk straight out the door with no particular destination in mind and just keep on going until his legs gave out. He tried to cope by imagining his father was another patient, a stranger to him; he tried everything he could to remain unbiased and provide the sort of care that anyone might hope to receive if they were in Stan's condition.

John had wanted to start the morphine much sooner than he did--as in, more than a week sooner--but he’d known that there was no turning back from it. Stan's compromised lung function, when combined with the depressive effects of the drug, would create a sedative effect from which John knew his father wouldn’t reawaken. He’d wanted to give his mother as much time to say goodbye to her conscious husband as was possible and humane. 

When the time had come, it went as predicted: within six hours of the first dose Stan had fallen unconscious for the last time. 72 hours after beginning the morphine, John had watched his parents spend their final moments together as his father drew his last breaths. Stan died right there in his horrible chair, which was where he’d been most comfortable at the end. 

Saying goodbye to the old man was strange, mostly because John wanted to feel more about it than he did. He struggled to summon something other than exhaustion and numbness, but failed. He was just tapped out. 

More difficult was his parting from Harry, regardless of the fact that it lacked permanence. While John was physically and emotionally knackered, his sister had looked downright haunted. 

“Are you _sure_ you'll be alright?” he’d pressed her.

She had looked at him, expression deadpan. “Are we ever, John?” she’d asked. And since there were too many ways to interpret that, John had been alternating ever since between thinking about it non-stop and ignoring it entirely.

In his seat on the train John was very specifically _not_ considering it. He rested the side of his head against the cold glass of the window and focused on breathing deeply. _It's over,_ he kept telling himself, but it didn’t ring true. The past was never really over, was it? But maybe one could say it had come to a resting point where any future developments were psychological or hypothetical only. 

That should be comforting. Right?

It wasn’t.

John was a man haunted by a war and the memory of his best friend's supposed suicide (fake or not, he’d seen what he had seen. In the recesses of his mind--where his darkest night-time ponderings lived--it would always be a version of the truth that there was no escape from). 

In other words, he knew how these things went. 

He turned his thoughts to his bed: thought of crawling into it and sleeping for days. He kept wanting to attempt a doze, but no matter how exhausted he was there was just no getting comfortable on a train. He also felt a low-key nervous energy humming through him from being on watch for too many days in a row. As far as his cortisol level was concerned, it was war-time all over again. Fight or flight. Adrenaline.

The only relief he was offered came when his phone buzzed with a text notification.

_Have you heard of this ‘Tom Petty’? SH_

John huffed a little laugh, grinning stupidly at the message. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was pulling his leg or not; the detective had adopted somewhat of an interesting sense of humor in recent months wherein he occasionally poked fun at his own lack of knowledge regarding pop culture and even, from time to time, human sentiment. He did it because he knew it made John laugh to see him express his growing awareness of himself in such a counterintuitive way. 

Then again, leave it to Sherlock to pose that question for real, naming a popular musical icon the way he might an obscure marine biologist.

John genuinely couldn’t tell. Therein lay the bulk of the humor. 

_Yes, I believe I’m familiar with him. Why, have you been giving him a listen?_

_Yes. SH_

_And?_

_I’m undecided. Perhaps if you enjoy him you can extoll on his virtues to me. SH_

_I like him alright. But if you want me to introduce you to music, you have no idea what you’re asking for._

_My interest is piqued. Do go on. SH_

This was another change that had arisen in the aftermath of Sherrinford: Sherlock had taken to dressing more casually around the flat at times and had started to open his mind to things he would once have dismissed as trivial. Mainstream music was just one of those things.

_Well, you’re no doubt familiar with the Beatles. But you haven’t listened to them until you’ve listened to them with me._

_Beatles? Are you referring to a specific subspecies? SH_

_You’re a wanker._

_That is the popular consensus. SH_

_Now I’m sentencing you to a three-hour mandatory course on Led Zeppelin as well._

_I suppose our Bond marathons have sufficiently conditioned me to deal with your poor taste. SH_

_There truly is no honeymoon phase to this homecoming, is there?_

They fell quiet again. When John checked the time and saw that he was fifteen minutes out from his stop, he was hit by a nauseating storm of anticipation and hunger. He sighed, wondering idly if there were trains in hell.

_Are you here yet? SH_

_Your phrasing suggests that you are already at the station. And if you are, you can clearly see that I am not there. You’ll know when a large metal vehicle arrives. It’s called a ‘train.’_

_Why haven’t you arrived already SH_

_Because I’m not due for 15 more minutes._

_Have a word with the conductor and let him know that I’m waiting. SH_

_Yeah, sure, I’ll do that._

God, it would be so good to set his bag down in 221B again. John tried to ignore the inexplicable butterflies that suddenly joined the unhappy chorus in his stomach.

As the train began to slow at the station, John was suddenly overcome with claustrophobia. He couldn’t step off fast enough. He wanted the smell of eucalyptus lingering around Mrs. Hudson’s flat, the fireplace in 221B, Chinese takeout, and the sweet musty scent of Sherlock’s old books. 

He couldn’t prevent the wave of relief that crashed over him when he disembarked and caught sight of Sherlock. After the hardship of the last few weeks it was almost an experience of pure dissociation to see the detective waiting on the platform in his long dark coat. (And nevermind that Sherlock had never before met him at any train station unless he was waiting for John to join him on a case, and most times not even then.) He hovered like a pale giraffe over the crowd, doing a poor job of trying to look unaffected by his blogger’s arrival.

The brunet pushed his way over to John, snatching his bag from his hand as soon as he’d reached him. “There almost wasn’t a flat to come back to,” he said in lieu of a greeting. 

They grinned conspiratorially at each other, and then there was an awkward pause while each silently tried to gauge what the reunion permitted. Sherlock ended the standoff by tossing John’s bag aside and engulfing the doctor in a hug that almost staggered the shorter man off his heels, both from the force and the surprise of it. 

John clapped Sherlock heartily on the back. “Easy there, you madman. Leave it to you to knock me off the platform and under an oncoming train just as I’ve rejoined the living,” he grumbled, attempting to gloss over a strange and unwanted surge of warmth and bashfulness.

Said madman ignored John’s awkwardness and instead tightened his hold. John felt his back pop under the pressure, which was a rather welcome side effect, come to think of it. 

Sherlock smelled like everything John had just been longing for, and he allowed himself to close his eyes for the briefest moment as his homesickness eased. 

And then, yes--there. John had nearly forgotten about the guilt, but it hadn’t forgotten him. It was always there now whenever Sherlock regarded him fondly or paid him a kindness or, for even a second, seemed as though he might have forgotten what a monster John could be.

Sherlock felt it when John stiffened, but released him tactfully without comment. He stooped to grab the luggage again. “Let’s not dawdle. Train stations are only interesting when you’ve a petri dish in your pocket, and I left mine on the counter.”

The two fell into step as they headed toward the exit to catch a cab. The detective assessed John sidelong, taking in his tired face and rumpled clothes. “You’re done in.”

“Nothing fifty or so hours of sleep and about 2,000 calories before and after won’t fix.”

“Indian or Chinese?”

“Chinese, if you’re amenable. You’ll eat?”

“I believe I will.”

***

John groaned to himself as their cab pulled up at 221, having only just then realized that he still had Mrs. Hudson to get past.

Sherlock, as always, read his mind. “I persuaded Hudders that she’d better say hello to you tomorrow. Give you some time to settle back in,” he said, brandishing some bills at the cabbie. 

“Thank god,” John sighed wearily, practically rolling himself out of the cab. He stretched once he was on his feet again. He loved Mrs. Hudson dearly, but he just didn’t have the energy. “You’re a saint.”

“I’ll remind you later that you said as much,” Sherlock said, looking slightly amused. He led the way to their door, John’s bag in hand, and deftly managed to get his key in the lock one-handed.

John entered just behind him, making sure to lock the front door behind them for the night, then headed eagerly up the stairs. When he reached the flat he didn’t even glance around to assess the damage sustained in his absence; he just headed straight to the sofa and collapsed onto it with another groan, this time of thanks.

He could hear Sherlock pace around the kitchen as he called to order Chinese. When the detective hung up and came back into the lounge, John’s eyes were shut.

“Don’t fall asleep there. It’ll be hell on your neck and shoulder, which have doubtless seen better days as it is.”

“Iuncare,” John muttered against the leather, too tired to form full words.

“You will later.”

“Later’s later.”

Sherlock sighed indulgently, and the next thing John knew, his legs were being hoisted up. “Oi,” he protested weakly.

“Relax,” Sherlock responded. He sat himself down where John’s feet had been, and then placed them in his lap.

“Mmph,” John acquiesced. 

“You’re taking up too much space,” Sherlock mumbled, and proceeded to pull John’s shoes off. They clunked to the floor, then Sherlock shifted and the telly came on. The flat filled with the sound of Graham Norton’s voice.

“So,” John mumbled, eyes still closed, trying and failing to not be very aware of the fact that he was practically entangled with his flatmate on their couch, “Tom Petty?” He didn’t need to open his eyes to sense the smile on Sherlock’s face.

“Yes. Tom Petty. And, apparently, the Beatles.”

“Good on you, trying new things.”

“Hmm. Well. It’s time, I think.”

“Nothing new for me for a while, please. Right back to normal would be nice. Cases and insanity.”

“I’m very glad that you feel that way.”

John opened one eye and regarded him warily with it. “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”

“It’s nothing. Just a case for Mycroft. We’ll discuss it further when you’ve caught up on your rest.”

John “Hmmm”ed and let out a long exhale, focusing on letting his muscles release their tension. “Wake me when the food is here.”

***

The following morning, John was woken by a knock at his door. He spent a minute trying to get his bearings after it occurred to him simultaneously that Harry must be knocking, and that she couldn’t possibly be.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

Sherlock pushed the door open and poked his head in. “Case, John.”

John rubbed at his eyes. “How long’ve I got?” 

“Ten minutes. I have tea here if I’m allowed in.”

John’s brow furrowed. Tea? Since when did Sherlock bloody Holmes offer him tea in bed?

“Yeah, sure. Ta.”

Sherlock pushed the door open the rest of the way and came over to set the cup down on John’s bedside table. John sat up slowly and glanced from Sherlock to the steaming cup and back again.

Sherlock caught his look and smiled, but it was a tiny, self-conscious thing that broadcast perfectly that he was well aware he’d just done something out of character. He turned and exited the room pointedly, dressing gown swishing around the door frame with his departure.

All right then. 

John picked up the cup and sipped the tea, which was the perfect temperature. He smiled faintly as the warm steam curled up into his face. 

It was a nice gesture, actually. Sort of sweet.

***

As it turned out, it might have been a better idea to stay in bed.

The trouble began with Sherlock lighting into Lestrade within moments of their arrival at the scene. The victim, as it happened, had been the Commissioner’s nephew, and Sherlock vehemently reminded Lestrade that he didn’t care in the least about the politics of the Met and that he was at no one’s beck and call to tidy up inconvenient situations. He further reminded the DI that the Commissioner didn’t care for consulting detectives and that, as far as each was concerned, the other was perfectly welcome to curl up under a bridge and die from leprosy. 

John was finally able to defuse Sherlock, but only just. Lestrade hung back after that, looking simultaneously angry and cowed.

Once the detective was able to focus, he began his usual flitting about the body. He sniffed the victim’s hands, rifled through his wallet, and spent several minutes scrolling through his phone. Then he sighed heavily and squeezed his eyes shut as though searching for his last modicum of patience. Then he made his pronouncement.

“It was the wife.” He looked up at Lestrade, who was telegraphing his reluctance to ask by pursing his lips quite hard.

Sherlock translated his silence. _“‘Well, Sherlock, how can you tell?’”_ he mocked. “It’s so simple that frankly it’s not worth the oxygen I’ll waste explaining, but _since I’m here_ : the victim’s hands smell of a very expensive hand soap, one which is a signature luxury of a high-end club for gay men in London. In his wallet is a business card for an erectile dysfunction specialist; its edges are still perfectly crisp, i.e., it has never been put to use. It’s only there because Mrs. Coleman has been hoping for a baby and Mr. Coleman has been unable to satisfy her ticking biological clock due to the insufficiency of the conversion therapy his parents subjected him to as a teen. The--” (here Sherlock used aggressive air quotes) "--'therapy' only succeeded in brainwashing Mr. Coleman until he very predictably began to panic about the onset of middle age. In other words, he was having an affair with a man at the time of his death.

"Complete surprise as these things _certainly never happen,_ ” (here Sherlock’s eyes widened with false astonishment, necessitating that John stifle a guffaw at what a sarcastic git he was being), “but Mrs. Coleman found out. How do I know _that?_ The crescent-shaped impressions around his right temple and scattered across his scalp beneath his hair. Here,” Sherlock pointed out the marks, “--a clear curve, with a divot toward the center. Social media being the convenient curse that it is allowed me to find the victim’s Facebook page, scroll through his photo gallery, and identify the murder weapon: Mrs. Coleman’s purse. She packed something heavy and bludgeoned him with it. The buckle on the front left its distinctive mark each time he was struck.” 

“Fantastic,” John muttered.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to him, his annoyance softening visibly for a moment.

“You got all of that from a _hand soap_?” 

The tone of the question was all wrong, being that it was one of scorn rather than stupefied amazement. The speaker--a new forensic tech named Hugh Bartlett who had been working under Anderson--stepped forward from behind Lestrade. 

Though they’d only met him briefly once before, John had already concluded that Hugh (with his slicked black hair and close-set eyes which seemed to look down his nose at everything) was a smug bastard. He now felt validated in his intuition, though not particularly pleased about it.

“Yes,” Sherlock said dismissively, standing from where he’d been squatted beside the prone body.

“A handsoap from a gay club.” Hugh smiled tightly, his eyes insinuating perfectly well what he was driving at.

John was moving before he was even aware of it: he stepped up into Hugh’s personal space and shoved at his chest with three firm, jabbing fingertips. Hard. “Problem?”

Hugh stumbled back, briefly surprised, but it only took him a moment to refocus his disdain on John. The corner of his mouth twitched sourly. "Just making some deductions. Or does Himself over there have a monopoly on that?"

"No one asked you."

"I'm here to help process the evidence. I have every right to question the validity of Mr. Holmes' observations."

"Oh, is _that_ what you were doing." John smiled back, dangerously, his eyes flat.

"I think it's perfectly fair to ask how Mr. Holmes is so familiar with the scent of this specialty soap that he can use it to accuse a woman of murder."

Before he was even aware that he was going to do it, John shoved Bartlett hard enough that the technician fell on his arse. 

Lestrade grabbed his elbow before he could do anything further. "John! That's enough!"

John yanked his arm free and met Greg's eyes, his face just as flushed as the DI’s. "He--"

"I don't care!" Lestrade cut him off, making a sweeping gesture with the flat of his hand. "Sorry mate, but you've got to leave."

John glared down at Bartlett's sprawled form as if weighing the merits.

"I mean it, John, take a hike or I'll have no choice but to cuff you!"

John's gaze snapped back to Lestrade, but the DI’s eyes were telling him not to push it. 

John snorted with disbelief and turned, walking away briskly before he could say or do anything he'd later regret.

A moment later Sherlock came up from behind him, hurrying to keep pace. They strode in silence for a long minute or two before Sherlock grabbed his forearm and pulled him to a stop. “John.”

John sighed heavily, avoiding eye contact. He felt a bit like vomiting.

Sherlock held his silence, but the air between them was tense. John sensed that the other man was trying to tread carefully. 

“Is this about Harriet?” Sherlock finally asked, his voice quiet and laced with concern.

John stared down at the pavement, hands on his hips. He shook his head once, a tight jerk.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said carefully.

“Why’s it got to be about Harry?” John snapped his head up to look at him. “Maybe _I_ find it offensive.”

Sherlock studied John’s face carefully. It was only because John knew him so well that he could tell the other man was flabbergasted.

John went on with another shake of his head and an incredulous shrug. “ _You_ don’t? I mean what’s it to people, anyway? Everyone’s so bloody high and mighty all the time, having to make their opinions known, as if they even matter.” He bit his lip hard, aware that he was far too riled up, but unable to stop his blood now that it was boiling. “I should have knocked his teeth in.” He shook his head yet again. “Why does everyone just, _assume_....”

He could feel Sherlock assessing him, reading god knew what into the outburst. John looked up at him almost guiltily, afraid of what he’d see reflected back at him.

Sherlock had tucked his hands into his coat pockets and was staring at him fixedly, his eyes dimmed with a horrible combination of sadness and patience. 

It was too much. John looked off down the street. “I don’t know, Sherlock. I’ve had enough these last few weeks, is all. If it’s all the same...I’d just like to go home.”

Sherlock nodded. “I have to go back to the scene for a minute. You go ahead. I’ll join you shortly.”

John nodded, deflating. 

They went their separate ways.

***

John caught a cab and spent the ride back to 221 kicking himself mentally.

He didn’t like to let Sherlock see him so wound up. After Culverton, and all that had happened at Sherrinford, John had done a stint in anger management while Sherlock had done his own in rehab. They’d had to treat their friendship with kid gloves for a while, but they’d finally managed to gain even footing. For a long time, John hadn’t been sure if they ever would. He’d sworn to himself that he’d never fuck it all up so badly again.

He was doing a bang-up job.

He paid the cab fare and mounted the steps, fumbling disconsolately with his key. He finally managed to unlock the door and was surprised when he almost ran into Mrs. Hudson.

“John!” she threw her arms around him and rocked him slightly. “It’s so nice to have you back! You’ve had an awful time of it, haven’t you?” She held him back at arm’s length to look more closely at him, her eyes gleaming with sympathy.

John nudged the door shut with his heel and smiled half-heartedly at her. “Guess you could say that. Don’t worry about it though, yeah? I’m home now at least. Everything’s as good as can be expected.”

She tilted her head knowingly, and he could see her consciously deciding not to say anything while still telegraphing to him with her eyes that she knew he was a fibber. “All right then. Well, I’ve done a bit of baking for you anyway. I had to hide most of it from Sherlock--you know how he is--but I’ll bring up some biscuits for you later.”

His smile warmed a few degrees. “I appreciate it, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you.” He kissed her on the cheek and she swatted at his bum, indicating that he should go about his business then.

He mounted the steps, feeling blessed and spoiled and loved and like a complete arsehole all at once.

He’d just managed to settle on the couch when his mobile rang. He pulled it from his pocket, completely unsurprised to see who it was.

“Lestrade.”

“John.” The DI sounded subdued. “Look, I’m sorry mate.”

John rubbed his forehead. “No, it’s fine. You weren’t wrong.”

“Bartlett’s an arsehole. Hope you know I wasn’t taking his side. That’s just the problem--I can’t take _any_ side when I’m on the job. I have to play the peacekeeper. But, off the record...I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d decked him. He’s a sniveling little shite, that one. Worse than Anderson.”

“I appreciate it, Greg.” And he did. “I need to learn to control my temper though. I shouldn’t have put you in that position. Have to remember what I learned in anger management when I start getting riled up like that.”

“All right, well. You’ve had it rough lately. Just don’t be too hard on yourself. We’ll grab a pint soon, right?”

“Sure. Thanks, mate.”

“Alright.”

John hung up, feeling at least slightly better. He turned on the telly while he waited for Sherlock to come home. There would need to be another conversation when that happened.

***

“I know what that looked like back there.”

Sherlock had returned to the flat about an hour after John. He’d come bearing food, and now he was opening the takeout boxes before them, focusing harder than necessary on his task. 

“Do you think you need to...check in with someone?” Sherlock asked carefully, not looking at him.

John shook his head. He sighed. “The truth is…” he accepted the chopsticks Sherlock was offering to him, “I could have reigned myself in. I know on some level I could have. It was more like...I chose not to. I wasn’t just mad at Bartlett, you see. I was angry at myself.”

Sherlock's brow furrowed lightly as he stared down into his shrimp fried rice. 

John doubted there was anything terribly perplexing in there. He hoped not, at least. He planted his chopsticks in his noodles and set them aside as he sat back farther into the couch. He clasped his hands together and swallowed as he composed himself, feeling remorseful. Feeling how very overdue this apology was. “All the times I made it seem like somehow the very idea was...offensive.”

Sherlock paused in digging through his rice.

“Back there, when Bartlett said that, about the soap. I just. I was angry but...it was also like I needed to let you know that I’m not going to do it anymore.” He frowned, considering what he’d just said. He shifted uncomfortably. “That makes it sound strange, like I somehow...staged that. It wasn’t. I didn’t, I mean. It...in the moment it all became one thing and I just chose not to hold it back. I was mad for you, mad for Harry, mad at myself. And I took it out on the most convenient arsehole. But I’m aware that my actions might have stirred up...some of our more recent history, and I apologize for that. I’m an arse, Sherlock. Can you...can you understand what I’m saying? I'm in control, I promise. If I thought even for a _second_ that I wasn't, I'd go stay with Harry. I never, ever want to make you feel unsafe again.”

Sherlock had resumed stirring his rice, but he was playing with it more than eating it. He nodded, but didn’t look up.

It was John’s turn to be perceptive. “What’s wrong?”

“The new case,” Sherlock mumbled distantly. “The one from Mycroft that I mentioned earlier. You needn’t come with me.”

John felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. God, just how much had he screwed things up? Was the incident with Bartlett the straw that would break the camel's back? “What...why not?” His voice was weak.

Sherlock set his rice down and instead went for an eggroll, keeping busy. “It should be quick anyway. I’ll be going undercover.”

John didn’t fully understand the caveat. “Well, I could come anyway, right? I’ve gone undercover with you before.”

Sherlock changed his mind about the eggroll and set it back down, chewing his lower lip slightly. John recognized the mannerism as a newer tell the detective had developed over the past year; he was trying to spare John’s feelings about something. Which was even more perplexing.

“Come on, what’s this really about?”

Sherlock tilted his head, poking at his rice again. “I'll be posing as a civilian, so if you were to accompany me I’d only have one way to explain your presence. I...know you don’t appreciate it when people assume that we’re--”

“No,” John said firmly.

Sherlock nodded quickly. “Exactly. So I’ll--”

“No,” John said again. “I don’t care. It falls in line with everything I just said, Sherlock, and I meant it. I also told you I want to get back to normal, and that’s what this is. It’s what we do. Together.”

Sherlock met his eyes then, still guarded. “And if, for some unforeseen reason, it drags out? You’re willing to maintain the charade that we’re together for an unknown length of time?”

John held his ground. He nodded and swallowed, searching the clear blue eyes that were fixed on his and wishing he could banish the uncertainty from them. _Please don’t lose faith in me, Sherlock. I can still be a good man_. 

That was what he wanted to say. But he didn't. What he said instead was, “Yeah. Why not.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, the set of his shoulders relaxing minutely. “Alright.”

“So,” John prompted. “Tell me all about this mysterious case then, yeah?”

_Just whatever you do, don't lose faith. Let me show you the sort of man I really am._


End file.
